


A Story Painted on Your Skin

by rthecynic



Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos and D'Artagnan are both soft, M/M, Slight reference to S1E10, Slight sprinkling of Athos and his Man Pain, Soulmate AU, flower soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: Every flower tells a story.It’s a fact of life, D’Artagnan knows, that when so much of who you are is painted upon your body, people are bound to be curious. Questions are asked, stories are told – it’s such an inherent part of society that such a desire for knowledge is normal. It’s only natural that the sight of an arm filled with sunflowers would pique a stranger’s interest, or that a vibrant clump of petunias would raise some discomfort. When so much of your soul is on display for the world to see, it’s difficult to hide.D'Artagnan and Athos share a moment after S1E10.
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154075
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	A Story Painted on Your Skin

_Every flower tells a story_.

It’s a fact of life, D’Artagnan knows, that when so much of who you are is painted upon your body, people are bound to be curious. Questions are asked, stories are told – it’s such an inherent part of society that such a desire for knowledge is normal. It’s only natural that the sight of an arm filled with sunflowers would pique a stranger’s interest, or that a vibrant clump of petunias would raise some discomfort. When so much of your soul is on display for the world to see, it’s difficult to hide.

D’Artagnan knows all this.

Yet he’s never been more aware of it than in this very moment.

He’s sat on a table, shirt cast aside, feather-light fingers cleaning a gunshot wound that grazed his ribs. Silence sits heavy between them, the only sounds the quiet mingling of their breaths and the pounding of D’Artagnan’s heart in his own ears. He’s had dressings changed before, and has often helped to bestow the same kindness to the others, so it’s not an unfamiliar scene.

So why does he feel strangely vulnerable?

It’s strange, he thinks, that Athos’ ministrations are so gentle. Careful, yes, but “gentle” is not a trait that he often associates with the man. He’s usually so proud and fierce and strong and _rough around the edges_ but here, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, he is all gentleness and care. Perhaps that is why he feels uneasy. The scene is familiar, but Athos is not, and it all feels almost _intimate_.

“I’m sorry…”

The words are so soft that D’Artagnan almost doesn’t hear them, even in the suffocating silence of the room.

“I never should have agreed to this… If I’d missed by even a fraction more…”

D’Artagnan’s breath catches in his throat for a moment. He knows exactly what Athos wants to say, knows exactly what causes the tension so heavy that he’s sure he could cut right through it.

No, this hadn’t been the plan, but D’Artagnan can honestly say that he hadn’t been afraid for even a moment. In spite of everything, he _trusts_ Athos. He’d trusted him with his life, and he’d do it all over again, damn the consequences.

“Athos, please…”

Athos’ hand seems to freeze for the briefest of moments, and then he is even more intensely focused on cleaning the wound, the scarlet way too stark against olive skin. He won’t look at D’Artagnan, and a gentle sigh, barely a stirring in the air, passes the younger man’s lips.

“I would do it again,” he whispers into the stillness. “I would do it again and I wouldn’t even hesitate. There’s no-one I trust more than you.”

Athos looks at him then, barely a glance, and D’Artagnan smiles.

“But next time, it’s Aramis’ turn, alright?”

A laugh escapes Athos; short and soft, more like a puff of air than a laugh, but it warms D’Artagnan’s heart.

“Come on, let’s talk of other things. No more wallowing.”

Athos raises an eyebrow, as if the very suggestion of his wallowing is an offense, but obliges.

“You’ve never told me how you ended up so covered in petunias.”

And D’Artagnan really should have expected this question, but he still finds it surprising that Athos is so blunt in his asking. He’s a private person, barely seeming to put any stock into flowers and soulmates and blooming tattoos, yet here he is asking for D’Artagnan’s story.

D’Artagnan finds that he cannot deny him.

He looks down at his arms, silently counting the bright violet flowers that he carries. There are eight in total now – eight people in the world who have caused him such anger that he will forever carry them on his skin.

“This one,” he begins, pointing to a bloom on his left forearm, “Was a boy from the neighbouring farm who stole my mother’s locket from me when we were five. It was the only thing I had of her and he threw it in the river to be swept away…”

Athos opens his mouth to speak, but D’Artagnan shakes his head. It’s in the past, and there’s no use in allowing it to swallow him whole. No amount of condolences can bring his mother back to him, and he wants to hear no pity from the man he respects above all others.

“These two,” he quickly continues, gesturing to two blooms, side by side at his left elbow. “The boy who made my cousin cry when he called her ugly, and the man who insulted my horse when I took some goods to the market at Meung.”

“A man who insulted your horse?” Athos asks, a hint of amusement in his tone. D’Artagnan feels a heat rising to his cheeks – of course he knows that it sounds like such a trivial thing to bloom over – but the memory still causes resentment to rise within him. But Athos is smiling at him so fondly, an almost mischievous twinkle in his eye, and just that small quirk of his lips is enough to soothe his rage, a cool balm against the burn of his anger.

“Bouton d’Or was a gift from my father,” he shrugs. “The man who insulted him insulted my honour, and that of my father too.”

A slight inclination of Athos’ head, a slight rumble from deep in his throat.

“I am not at all surprised, D’Artagnan, that you would perceive such a slight as nothing less than slander.”

D’Artagnan isn’t sure whether he should be insulted by that, but Athos is smiling and for once it is _genuine_ and he finds that he can’t bring himself to care.

And then Athos’ fingers are whispering over his shoulder, where another story waits to be told.

He hesitates, just for a moment, trying to ignore the spark that jolts through him at Athos’ touch.

“That one… At first I thought it was for you…”

A beat of silence.

“The man who killed your father.”

D’Artagnan nods, another beat of silence follows.

“Athos?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

And he is; he truly is. Because imagining a life without this – without Athos’ strong presence by his side, without this moment right here, is hardly worth thinking about. Athos, who has been so scarred by the ghosts of his past and the demons of his own mind, yet still cares so deeply, still puts everyone before himself when the very world has seemed determined to drain him of compassion. Athos, who yearns for something to cling on to, who would do anything for his friends, who is good and loyal and true. Athos, brave and strong, who is the missing half of his heart, who caused the crimson bloom upon his chest. Without him, the world would be cold and empty and dark.

Without him, D’Artagnan would be lost.

Athos seems to be drifting again, losing himself to his own thoughts. D’Artagnan takes his hand and guides it to his right elbow. Almost instinctively, Athos’ fingers caress yellow petals, every touch a mere kiss against his skin. It’s as if he thinks D’Artagnan as fragile as the petals of one of the flowers that mark his arms.

“This is your only sunflower…” he murmurs, and there is a hint of sadness to it. But D’Artagnan has never minded. A contrast to Aramis, who loves so purely and so easily, whose arms are covered in fields of sunlight, he has always believed in the nature of true and lasting friendship. Whilst Aramis sees himself as lucky to have formed friendships from all walks of life, D’Artagnan prefers to reserve his trust and admiration for a deserving few. So to him, his sole sunflower is a symbol of an enduring bond that will last for a lifetime.

“It is for Constance,” he tells Athos. “It seems fitting that she stands out as special against the tapestry of my life.”

He slides down from the table, finds his hand gently moving to brush against Athos’ cheek, rough stubble scratching against his skin. They’re close, so close that D’Artagnan can feel his companion’s breath, and the spark is back in his blood.

“What about you?” He barely breathes the words; there is no need. His soft voice fills the space between them, yet does nothing to disturb the calm stillness of the room. The candlelight flickers and their shadows dance to the tune, merging together into one as the light shifts just right. “At first, I didn’t think you had any tattoos. No sunflowers, no petunias…”

Athos huffs softly and D’Artagnan tries to ignore the way his tilts his face ever-so-slightly into the Gascon’s calloused hand.

“I’ve never been good at letting people in…”

It’s an admission that D’Artagnan hadn’t been expecting. Athos never voices these hidden parts of himself, and D’Artagnan absorbs the words with a quiet reverence. It almost feels, in this intimate moment, that all of their walls have come tumbling down and no secrets can be left between them. There is something so beautiful about that feeling, and yet it is terrifying in equal measure. To stand here with another person, your whole life laid bare, is like falling from a great height and hoping with all your heart that they’ll be there to catch you.

It takes his breath away, and he can only imagine how Athos must feel.

“You have us,” he finds himself saying. “Aramis and Porthos and me. You let us in.”

His fingers glide gently down to rest over Athos’ heart and he feels more than hears the hitch in the other man’s breath.

“You carry our marks here,” he continues. “And one day, you’ll bloom your rose too.”

Athos shakes his head, even as he ever so slightly tilts it back.

“I don’t think I am ever destined for a rose…”

D’Artagnan would be lying if he said that the words didn’t cause a clenching pain in his heart, but he says nothing for a moment. How easy it would be to tell Athos another story, the story of his own heart bloom, the story of how they are destined for each other. But it’s not what Athos needs right now. It will only confuse him, cause him pain. The only way Athos will be able to truly believe it will be to see it for himself when his own time comes.

“Never give up hope,” he tells him instead. “You are deserving of love, Athos, you only have to let it in.”

Athos smiles and then their arms are around each other, conveying words that would remain unspoken. Athos’ arms are _thank you_ and _I need you_ and _don’t leave me_ , whilst D’Artagnan’s are _I love you_ and _I’m here_ and _everything will be alright._ They hold each other for a moment, frozen in time, surrounded by nothing but stillness and silence and the flame that brings them light.

But a moment cannot last forever and they have to part, both of them knowing that this will remain buried between them come the morning. But for tonight they can enjoy the warmth and companionship of each other and D’Artagnan will be satisfied for now.

**Author's Note:**

> The relevant flowers for this chapter are:
> 
> Petunias - An enemy flower representing anger and resentment  
> Sunflowers - A friendship flower representing loyalty and long-lasting friendship  
> Rose - A romantic soulmate flower, blooms in different colours depending on the relationship dynamic
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! It honestly means the world to me, especially with the universe slowly consuming my life!   
> Comments give me serotonin and motivation to keep going!
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr - come and say hi! Feedback, prompts and requests are always welcome! Or if you just want to shout about the Musketeers, that's also highly encouraged! :)


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